The Death Queen
by Adi Who is Also Mou
Summary: For Death, she tasted sweet. AU.


Tepid waters rippled in their puddles as the men ran past them, chasing a spectre.

Death marked the path they had to follow, wilted weeds of the city and dead pigeons, dropped from their safe perches of the night. The spectre had to be stopped before the entire city died. But it's difficult to keep up, for the spectre was Death personified, and like Death, swift, soundless and without mercy.

Sherlock Holmes skids to a halt after running down a dead end. His body is rippling with pent up energy, the sparks firing through his hair and making the ends vibrate. He hisses in frustration, before taking a calming breath and controlling the sparks of pure atomic energy, reabsorbing them and storing them until further notice.

John Watson catches up to him; seemingly moving at a snail's pace. He whistles, staring at the high, forbidding wall. The potted plants on the sides of the alley, hanging from balconies, are dead and rotten.

"Couldn't you have shifted and scaled the wall?" the doctor asks. It's not possible for a mere human to scale, the high wall, but Sherlock isn't a mere human.

"Lost her," his friend says through gritted teeth. "Can't sense her anymore, too many people. And she's gotten her control back, so no more dead things to follow beyond this wall either."

John nods, not really understanding, but he could pretend. Sherlock never noticed.

"You should go home," Sherlock continues. "It's getting late and your wife told me not to keep you out too long."

John would take offense, but the last time they disobeyed Mary, he ended up with diaper duty for a month. He wasn't about to take a risk. "Aren't you heading home too?"

"No. Lestrade has a case waiting for me," the self proclaimed consulting detective smiles. "Do not fear John, I won't start without you. I just need the files."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes prowls the allies of London for a long while after John has gone, his coat causing him to cut a dramatic figure; the lie about Scotland Yard needing him again having convinced the doctor of his intentions. He wasn't about to risk his very human friend's life with what he was about to do.

There is only one man who can withstand the spectre terrorizing London and that's him.

* * *

The door creaks open when he raises a fist to knock.

The wooden floorboards complain at his weight, but he knows they would hold.

"We've got to find better places to meet," he steps gingerly around the dead rat, his eyes on the woman hidden in the shadows of the dark drapes.

"How many dead?" her voice is sweet and trembling, not the voice one would expect of belonging to one of London's greatest threats.

"None," he replies. She looks unconvinced, and for good reason. It's a total lie. "Alright. Two. The night guard and the receptionist."

Her face twists in despair and she throws her hands up in her emotion. The black gloves on her hands have tiny white diamonds sewn on; they sparkle like stars in the light of the moon.

The moon's the only source of light in the dingy flat he stepped into, and it makes her glow, turning her into a dainty creature, fragile and breakable, instead of the monster she purports to be.

"I didn't mean to!" she keeps repeating, and he's crossed the room to her, gingerly kneeling in front of her, hands brushing her glove covered ones hesitantly for a moment before he clasps her in his strong grip.

"It wasn't you," he whispers, tenderly kissing her fingertips, letting the soft material of her gloves brush over his lips, letting them linger. "It wasn't you."

Her eyes are shining with tears. "I could have stopped it; I could have controlled it, I…"

He's towering over her in moments, his large hands cupping her face without hesitation. He kisses her forehead, ignoring the sudden, slight tug at his energy.

He trails kisses over her face, before reaching her neck and lingering there.

For Death, she tastes so sweet. He licks at all the secret hollows of her neck, trails upwards to nibble at her earlobes, mouths across her collarbones. He brushes his lips across hers, but she pulls away before he can deepen the kiss.

"Don't. Please."

He understands.

But he wants to touch her, touch so much more of her than the black, funeral-like dress she's wearing allows, he wants to tug and rip and throw the dark dresses she always wears and touch her pale, pale skin, kiss her everywhere.

Her hands grip his coat's lapels; push it and his suit jacket off. He lets her, lets her explore him, and he groans when she presses a tentative kiss on his chest, over his heart. "We can't do this, Sherlock."

He wants to kiss her, so he settles for pressing kisses over her closed eyelids.

"We can't. You'll get hurt."

"I won't. I won't, I'm not like the others," he insists, because he really isn't. He's pure energy compressed in one human form, no matter how much she sucks out of him, he will always have more. He'll give her everything, let her take all she needs, and he'll never run out.

Fate played a cruel hand when it put them on different sides of a war.

"Jim will know. Jim always knows."

Jim. _Moriarty. _The one who had the Death Queen in his slimy hands, the one who manipulated her to kill, to lose control of the power she had been cursed with.

He would present her with Moriarty's beating heart one day, and Molly would love him, free from the clutches of the Dread Lord.

She's pulling away fast from him, and he knows if he lets her go, the next time he sees her, she won't be Molly, she'll be the Death Queen, an unstoppable, unpredictable spectre of death and rot.

"Don't. Molly, come with me. I'll keep you safe. Stay…please."

It's in vain. He knows it is. But he has to try.

She leans up to press a kiss on his cheek, but he turns and connects their lips.

It's like being connected to a live wire. He can feel himself draining, but he wants to hold onto her, he doesn't think he _can _pull away. His power is being taken away faster than he can replenish it, but by God, he's soaring, he wants to be in this moment forever, their lips moving together, the ecstasy he felt was better than orgasm, he's—,

Molly's pushed him away, she's running for the window, and he can't stop her, he feels as if he's been cut open and robbed of all vital organs.

She pauses outside the window, half perched on the sill. "We shouldn't see each other again, Sherlock. We can't keep doing this."

"Molly, I will find a cure for this, for you—I won't-,"

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

And she's gone into the night.

* * *

_A/N: Got darker than intended. Had a very different idea for what I wanted to happen but I like the idea of Molly having a power like Rogue okay? It's bad, but I got a plot bunny._

_Leave a review?_

_Adi x_


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